


The Tale of Smokin' Gun Kirschstein

by pilindiel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Holes, Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Death but with a Happy Ending, Drama, M/M, Minor Violence, Self-Loathing, alternate universe - wild west, the epilogue is a modern au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: Before Smokin' Gun Kirschstein became a robber, before Smokin' Gun Kirschstein became a killer, before Smokin' Gun Kirschstein burned cigarettes into dead people's skin, he was a young man named Jean.  A schoolteacher who fell for a onion farmer in a small town by a lake.A story of lovers star-crossed and lovers lost.





	The Tale of Smokin' Gun Kirschstein

Texas springs are much better than Texas summers. A Texas summer is hot winds and stifling sun – the dry air and pounding heat is like a constant drum to your steps, an extra weight of warmth. Even by a lake the summer is like hell on Earth, burning the skin and the ground. Add on the humidity and it can feel more like a swamp than a town thriving on fish and fresh grown vegetables and fruits.

Spring, though. Spring is like the splash of water to a pair of parched lips; endless rain that shifts the humid mornings to cool afternoons and calming nights.

It's on one of these nights that a stranger stumbles into Jean's life; blown in by the cool spring wind as he rides into town with his mule – Betty Lou, the ugliest thing Jean has ever seen – and a wagon full of sweet, fresh onions and sacks full of spices.

His skin is tan and his freckles are darker, but his smile is like sunshine behind a cloud and Jean staggers to his feet when he catches him entering the front of the inn his parents used to own, his breath catching in his throat.

The stranger is golden, radiant, and Jean hastily drags the tip of his hat down in greeting while the stranger discusses room and board with Jean's sister, Miriam.

His drawl is thicker than Jean's, he notices, and the way he drags out his vowels is slow and deep, like words rumble through his chest rather than his throat. His clothes are different too; the cotton is lighter and his hat is gray and faded with the dust of the road. Miriam sets him up with a room, and Jean is silent.

Before the stranger ducks up their small set of stairs, he turns to Jean and says, his voice heavy with sleep, “I don't think I caught yer name.”

It takes Jean longer than a moment to realize the stranger is addressing him and his heart catches in his throat, hands hastily shoving into his pockets.

“Jean,” Jean mutters as he averts his gaze, “Jean Kirschstein. I run the school in town.”

The stranger smiles, eyes crinkling with honesty. “I'm Marco Bodt,” he says, “It's nice to meet ya, Jean.”

He disappears into his room, but the way his lips form around Jean's name stay with him long after he's gone.

* * *

Within a month, Marco has made a home for himself. The small patch of land across the lake was untouched until Marco arrived, but the mayor let him have it as long as he made his own way over there and back.

Marco had just grinned when asked and every morning he sells the sweetest onions and onion juice Jean has ever tasted in the corner of the town by Jean's schoolhouse.

Everyone loves him. It's hard not to. He's charming, kind, and easy-going, with a smile that puts even the most nervous person at ease.

Their town is small – two streets that cross in the middle with one church, one inn, one saloon, one trading post, and one schoolhouse that's falling apart at the seams.

The school that Jean teaches at, much to the chagrin of his family.

 _ **Teachin',**_ his father had said over chicken one night long before he passed away, _**that's a woman's job.**_

Jean had ignored him, just like he ignores the disapproving stares of the sheriff and the preacher's son when he lets his students out for the day.

They flock to Marco like locusts to fresh wheat, but the young man grins as he tosses an onion in the air, babbling on and on about how his onions can cure everything from tooth aches to hemorrhoids. The children are enthralled, eyes wide and excited, and Jean chuckles as he watches, leaning against the fence by Marco's vegetable cart.

The sun is beating down on them but Marco is as cool as the lake water, and the shade of his Stockman does little to hide the brightness of his smile. His shirt has little breathing room and his suspenders lay tightly over his shoulders and the broadness of his chest. Jean traces the stretch of muscles beneath Marco's shirt, the callouses on his hands. Marco gestures animatedly with them, and when he catches Jean staring, the next sentence is directed at him, his smile teasing.

“The ancient Egyptians knew what I'm talkin' about. If ya don't believe me, just ask Mary Lou,” he says, patting the mule's fuzzy nose, “All she eats is onions and she's almost a hundred years old.” Mary Lou chews lazily on some cud, nuzzling into Marco's farm-worked fingers, and makes a wheezing sound.

Jean scoffs, a biting sound that only makes Marco's smile wider. “How would you know, Marco? You're not a day over 25.”

Marco leans forward, holding out one of his precious bulbs, the warm ruby of its colour catching the blistering sun. “It's nature's magic vegetable, Mr. Jean,” Marco says with a wink, his voice smoothing over the vowels of Jean's name.

Jean blames the flush to his cheeks on the sun and tips his hat down to hide his smile.

A highway man tramples up to the shade of Marco's cart, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, and slaps some coins onto the counter. “I don't care how much gold is back there I ain't goin' back without some lizard repellent,” he says through an impressive, bushy mustache.

Just the mention of the little monsters makes the children go quiet, and Jean has to suppress a shudder.

Yellow spotted lizards. A single drop of their venom can stop a man dead in eleven steps, the exact amount of spikes each one of them has on their squirmy, scaly bodies.

Jean's only seen them a handful of times – they prefer the dry air and the desert sand, not the squishy, swampy grounds of the lake – but there's a dread that sinks into his bones at the mention of them and Jean can't imagine going anywhere near the bastards.

The gold out there, though. That drives men to do some stupid, stupid things.

Marco takes the highway man's aggression with a smile, handing the stranger a glass jar with muddy liquid. “Lucky for you, yellow spotted lizards don't like my onion juice.” The highway man snatches the jar from Marco's grip as he storms off back to his wagon, but Marco takes it all in stride.

There's a sack by his feet that he hefts into his arms, turning to Jean fully this time. Jean feels himself stand a little straighter, counting the freckles that dance across the bridge of Marco's nose.

“And for you, Mr. Kirschstein,” Marco's voice rumbles with the name, deftly rolling the R on his tongue, “I have a special bag of onions.”

Jean swallows thickly, takes the sack with a small thank you. It's heavier than he imagined and he almost drops it in the hurried exchange. His own jar sits in the dirt by his boot, newly spiced and warmed by the sun. He picks it up, feeling the liquid slosh in his haste to hand it to Marco and his waiting smile.

“And your p-peaches,” Jean murmurs, running a hand through the undercut of his hair.

Marco's eyes crinkle as he beams. “Thank you.”

Jean's stomach flips, slowing to a churn as Marco continues.

“Give Miriam my regards – ” Jean's chest clenches, “ – I swear, she makes the sweetest peaches in all of Texas.”

Jean wants to scoff, but the anger sears down his arms instead and curls his fingers. Right. _**Miriam's**_ peaches.

Oluo, one of many fisherman, slaps a hand on Jean's back, his hat slipping a little off his head. “Sometimes I think Green Lake Texas is heaven on Earth,” he declares with a whistle, “'Cause those peaches are the work of an _**angel**_.” He and Marco share a comfortable laugh, but Jean shrugs Oluo off, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, you can sweet talk 'er all ya want later,” Jean chides, sliding his hands into his pockets. He feels his shoulders hunch, his stomach twisting, and he quickly tilts his head back to the schoolhouse. “I've gotta get back to it,” he mutters, “Got some work I need ta finish.”

He waves them off as a goodbye and tries not to think about the disappointment he sees in Marco's eyes when he walks away.

* * *

The rain of a Texas spring isn't like it is up north, where the humidity builds and bleeds through the clouds, soaking the earth and making the air feel fresh and green.

Texas rain is hard and unrelenting – heavy drops that seep through clothes and sink to the bone, chilling you no matter how hot the sun beats you down the rest of the day. It kicks up the dust and makes grit sit in the air and on your tongue, even if the cool breezes it brings are a welcomed reprieve from the heat.

The clouds are a menacing swirl of black above them, but the rain isn't nearly as hellish. It smacks the sand and the dust but the thirsty ground welcomes it, and Jean leans in the doorway of his small classroom, ushering his students to rush home as soon as possible; if they tried to wait it out, the rain would just get heavier.

It's surprising considering how stiflingly warm it was earlier but that's Texas for ya – just wait a couple hours and the winds will change.

“Rain or shine we're gonna have school!” he calls out to a gaggle of girls who titter at his comment before rushing off, using books to shelter their carefully kept braids as they dodge raindrops.

Jean tiptoes around meticulously placed buckets and cups laid out along the floors and chairs of his classroom before returning to his desk. The roof has leaked since Jean was born, but no one in town has ever been able to prep it against the terrors of the winds that roll off the lake and plains; it's a blessing and a curse to be this close to water – you get the beauty and the agriculture and the food, but ya get all the nasty weather that comes with it.

Scowling down at his papers, Jean doesn't even realize he has a guest before they clear their throat. He jumps, startled, and stares across the room at Marco, framed in his doorway like he stepped off of a cloud. Perspiration clings to his hair and his hat but nothing dampens his smile.

“Hello Mr. Jean,” he says, letting himself into the room.

Jean's heart catches, his smile lopsided. “How many times do I gotta tell ya you can just call me _**Jean,**_ ” he chides.

Marco has the audacity to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. His chuckle is deep and rumbling, rivaling the roll of thunder outside. Jean feels his stomach flip. “Old habits,” he says. The implication isn't lost on Jean and they let the moment sink in before Marco takes charge again, taking a few strides to stand by Jean's desk. “I thought you might still want some onions.”

Jean stands to greet him and they somehow meet somewhere in the middle, with Jean's hip pressed against the old cherry wood of his desk. He takes the sack with a small thank you, trying not to get lost in the way Marco's comfort overpowers the chill of the rain.

Marco's eyes trail down the side of his face to the small mug on Jean's desk, watching with a half-smile as a raindrop beads from the ceiling and falls directly into the diligently placed ceramic.

“I can fix that,” he muses, thumb fiddling with the straps of his suspenders.

Jean leans against the desk now, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow cocked. “Are you trying to tell me now that onions are a cure for a leaky roof?”

Marco laughs, a light, hearty sound, and Jean's chest warms. “Nah, I'm just good with my hands,” he explains, eyeing the hole now from his spot on the ground. “I built my own boat, you know. I need it to get across the lake to my onion field.”

Jean's smirk softens and he takes a moment to appreciate the way Marco's brow pinches in thought, the way Jean can already tell he has a plan forming in that brilliant mind of his like it plays across the gold reflected in his eyes. The door is still wide open and the winds shake the trees down to their roots but Jean's schoolhouse is so warm, like they're in a different time.

“Well I suppose it would be bad if you had a leaky boat,” Jean teases, finding his voice.

Marco is brought back to reality when Jean speaks and he smiles again, a soft little twitch to his lips. “Tell you what, I'll fix your roof in exchange for three jars of those spiced peaches.” He tips his hat at the glass jars on Jean's desk and Jean is surprised his heart doesn't clench at the mention of them.

Perhaps it's a Marco thing.

Jean extends his hand and Marco takes it in his warm, calloused one. His fingers are stumpier than Jean's, worked hard by his field, but there's a tenderness there Jean can't place.

“It's a deal.”

Their eyes meet, hazel to sienna, and Marco smiles.

* * *

Marco barely waits for the ground to dry before he drags a ladder out into the mud. Jean watches him in between classes, offering him water and tea and anything else he could want for all his hard work.

Marco just smiles and accepts them all easily and Jean tries to stamp out the warmth spreading through his chest and the pounding of his heart.

It feels far too soon when Marco slides off the roof and down the ladder, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

“Is there anything else?” Marco asks, and Jean can't think of anything but the dimples of Marco's cheeks, the gentleness of his stare, and how badly Jean wants to keep it close to him.

“The windows won't open,” he finds himself saying, “And the children and I would enjoy a breeze now and then.”

Marco puts one calloused hand on his hip and glances back at the schoolhouse, twirling his hammer idly in his palm with the other. He turns back to Jean slowly and Jean has the urge to hastily wet his lips.

“I can fix that,” Marco says, light dancing behind his eyes.

* * *

It's during lunch that Jean likes to read out loud to the younger, quieter children. While young Connie Springer and Sasha Braus roll around in the mud and dirt, Jean finds it easier to read to people like Annie, who sits cross-legged on the floor next to Jean as he hums through a poem.

“ _Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,_

_And watching, with eternal lids apart,_

_Like nature's patient sleepless eremite -_ ”

He knows Annie isn't fully grasping the gravity of the words, but her attention is rapt from the way Jean speaks and he smiles a little as he continues. Quiet moments like this are a nice reprieve – when Jean reads it's like the world just melts away and he can bask in the literature. It's hard to come by good books of poetry and prose in a town like this, and the spines of the ones he has are faded and cracked with use, but Jean loves them all the same. He could recite them from memory if he wanted.

He hopes his longing comes across – a town like this is stiflingly small.

“ _The moving waters at their priestlike task -_ ”

A voice startles them both and Jean turns suddenly to the window, his heart catching in his throat. Marco is leaning against the frame, eyes dancing with sentimentality and the tiniest bit of mischief. He follows Jean's poem perfectly, that deep, Louisiana accent exaggerating the vowels and dragging out the words.

“ _Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,_

_Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask_

_Of snow upon the mountains and the moors;_ ”

Jean's flush burns his ears and Marco bites his lower lip to try to hide his smirk, resting his chin on his palm, his elbow on the windowsill. Marco's teasing him, Jean knows, but Jean can't stop his wide-eyed stare or the fluttering of his heart.

He breathes out Marco's name. It's all he can focus on.

No one in town knows John Keats. No one in town reads unless they need to, and no one in town knows anything about literature or prose or poetry. They don't think it's important. Everyone is preoccupied with their their small town and their small church and their small lives.

But there's a sparkle to Marco's eyes that tells him there's something else, something beyond this lake and this town, and Jean wonders if Marco is just as bored with this town as he is.

He wants to ask Marco to join them, to listen to the words of John Keats rumble through his chest like thunder through the clouds and be lulled to sleep by his deep, rich voice, but instead he lets the silence linger and tries to burn Marco's small, playful smile to memory.

Something shifts in Jean's chest, but he can't place what.

“You know,” Jean begins again, clearing his throat, “That door doesn't hang straight.”

Marco's smile is slow but honest and his dark eyes shift to the door before meeting Jean's again. “I can fix that.”

* * *

The men in this town are monsters. Jean's known this since he was a young boy, when he would get teased for the status of his parents and the prettiness of his sister. Miriam has long blonde hair that she keeps wrapped in a loose braid over her shoulders and looks like she stepped out of some Medieval painting – a beauty that's ancient but grounded.

Her suitors are numerous, and Jean has prided himself in beating all of them back, sans one.

Miriam teaches one class at the school every other night, where any man in town wishing to learn can come in and be treated to her kind smile and her unrelenting enthusiasm.

She teaches them to read, though no one really comes in for the lessons.

Jean watches from the doorway every night, shoulder digging into the grain with increasing irritation the longer the wealthiest man in town sits at the front, his gangling legs too big for the small desk and chair.

He looks like a fool, and his hair is shorn short around his face and forehead, looking like it was cut with the outline of a bowl in mind.

Jean shudders. _**Marlowe.**_

He knows, deep down, that his pursuit of Miriam is probably quite sincere, but Jean can't stand the way he looks down his nose at anyone beneath his rank and wealth. Which, considering the state of their town, is everyone not in the Freudenberg family.

Miriam, though. Miriam has no idea that the man who leaves her flowers and gives her endless praise is the same man who's brothers throw eggs at Jean's school in the dead of night.

She's headstrong and confident, but her mind is on a different plane of existence, lost in lofty ideals and sentimentality. Jean has to protect that optimism, or the world will crush her smile beneath its boot.

He digs his shoulder deeper into the newly painted doorway, hard enough to hurt, and stands guard.

Mike Zacharius is a large man. His chest is broad and his muscles strain as he moves – he's the strongest man in town, serious but calm. The light of the oil lamps flicker across his solemn expression and his eyes narrow as he scans the words written on Jean's chalkboard, urged on by Miriam's gentle smile.

“The...duck...swims...on...the lake,” Mike reads, crossing his arms in satisfaction at the hoots and hollers around him. Jean finds himself smiling a little – at least they pay attention to their lessons more if Miriam's in charge. Last time Jean tried to teach them anything, Sheriff Shadis had to be fetched before Jean's teeth were knocked out his skull.

Children were people Jean could tolerate. But grown ass men who thought they knew better? Those got under Jean's skin more than anything.

“The duck may swim on the lake,” Marlowe begins snootily, and Jean feels his eyebrow twitch, “But my daddy _**owns**_ the lake.”

The room joins him in cacophonous laughter, but Mike's shoulders tense and Jean immediately steps into the light of the room.

“That will be all for tonight, gentlemen,” Jean barks over their toothy grins.

“Aw, come on Jean, we're just havin' a little fun,” Marlowe complains, but his smile has a bite to it and Jean gets a terrible urge to smack it right off him.

He ushers the group of men out into the cool night air, holding the door open for them as they funnel out into the sleepy town for the evening, but of course, they have one straggler.

Marlowe hops out of his seat only to sit on top of the desk itself, swinging his legs a little as his eyes scan up and down Miriam's body. Jean blood pumps hot beneath his veins with every word Marlowe says, with every flick of Marlowe's eyes.

“Miriam,” Marlowe begins, dropping his voice low, “How about me and you have a little picnic? We could ride in my motorboat out on the water.”

Miriam blinks her chestnut eyes owlishly, surprised. “Oh, no thank you.”

“It's brand new,” Marlowe implores, leaning into her space. Jean takes note of how she balls her fists, of how she leans back. “I mean, you don't even have to row it.”

“I said _**no**_ , thank you,” Miriam says, but her voice is shaky and she turns away from him, focusing on the backboard.

Marlowe grabs her arm, fingers digging into her skin, and Miriam's eyes fly wide as he forces her back around. “Hey, no one ever says no to Marlowe Freudenberg,” he snaps.

Jean is up before Marlowe can finish his sentence and his grip on Marlowe's shoulder is tight enough hurt, tight enough to burn. Jean's whole body is pulsing with anger, full of unspoken, biting words and insults that he just barely manages to hold back. He spins Marlowe around and wishes he could just strike him across the jaw.

Miriam steps closer, says Jean's name with a tremble, but all Jean hears is the blood pounding in his ears, the heaviness of his breathing.

Marlowe smirks at him.

 _ **What are you going to do?**_ Marlowe's eyes say, his smile twitching at his lips. _**My daddy owns this town. Do you really want to risk this?**_

A flush of anger rises up Jean's neck and into his face and his grip grows tighter, fisting into Marlowe's shirt.

“She said _**no**_ , Freudenberg,” Jean says through gritted teeth.

Marlowe's smirk only gets more pettish and he eyes Jean's hand on his shoulder like one would a fly on their food. “Why don't you get your hand off me, Kirschestein?” he says, “I don't want to get _**dirty.**_ ”

Jean's stomach coils hot like a snake in the heat of summer, like fire in the belly of a dragon, and red leaches into his vision.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” a voice all too familiar rolls in from the front door and Jean's eyes flick to Marco in the doorway, bathed in warm lantern light. He looks calm but Jean can see the tension in his chest, the careful way he holds himself, the way his gaze goes from Jean's tense muscles to Marlowe's sneer.

The cool night air blows through the door and it does something to Jean's bravado, freezing him in place.

“Nothin' wrong here, onion picker.” Marlowe says the title like an insult and Jean flinches. “Just two men havin' a friendly conversation.” Jean swallows thickly and is overwhelmed with how badly he wants to both hide himself and smack the bitterness out of Marlowe's mouth.

Marlowe shrugs Jean's hand from his shoulder, but nods his head once, shoving his discarded hat over his mess of greasy black hair. He makes his way to the doorway and Marco steps out of his path, crossing his arms over his chest.

Marlowe looks him up and down then puffs out a terse breath. Jean clenches his jaw and hates the way more unspoken words boil up his throat.

Thankfully, Marlowe just shoots a quick look over his shoulder before heading out into the night.

They all collectively breathe a sigh, but the tension is hardly broken. Jean still feels tense, still feels the prickling of annoyance under his skin, and he stares at the ground, quietly fuming.

Miriam picks up a rag and shakily tries to wipe down the blackboard.

“You didn't have to be such a brute, ya know,” she mutters, focused on the smears of white chalk.

For a moment, Jean doesn't even register that she's talking to him but the nastiness in her tone – the indignant, childlike embarrassment – stokes his embers.

Jean bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

“He would have hurt you if I didn't do nothin',” he retorts, sticking his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking.

Miriam sighs, exasperated, and Jean feels it strike his heart.

“No he wouldnt've, Jean,” she demands. Her words crack in her throat, wobbling on tears, “You _**always**_ do this.”

Jean's brow pinches and it's like Marco isn't even there, like his calming presence does nothing to stop the churn of his stomach or the way Miriam's words keep hitting all the cracks of Jean's self-consciousness.

“I'm tryin' to protect you, Miriam – ”

The slap of the rag on the desk startles him and Miriam turns, red-faced and furious.

“I don't _**need**_ no protectin',” she snaps. Her eyes are wide and full of tears and embarrassment and _**shame**_ and Jean wishes he could just shut it all out, could grab a cigarette or a beer and let the vices drown him. “You act like everyone is out to get ya, Jean,” she seethes, “But the truth is, no one can stand bein' around you!”

It's like being smacked hard across the face – a stinging shock that rattles the skin and throbs long after it's hit.

Jean swallows, but the lump in his throat remains. “What?”

Miriam tries to back-track, but even she seems to be aware of herself for once, and she seems to curl in on herself, wrapping her arms around body. “I...I didn't mean nothin' by it, it's just...” She searches for the words in the wall past Jean's head, then settles her eyes on the floorboards. “There's only so much negative attitude a person can take, Jean. You're just...” She sighs. “It's exhaustin'.”

Miriam averts her eyes but Jean continues to stare forward, eyes glued to the dust still settled on the chalkboard. His sister brushes past his shoulder as she makes her way outside but it could have been a breeze from how subtle it was.

Marco catches his arm, firm but gentle. Jean is dazed, chest heaving with words he hasn't figured out yet, but somehow Marco's even stare holds back his bile and he deflates as Marco's thumb brushes the inside of his bicep.

Jean's nostrils flair as he glares at the ground and for a moment they just stand there, Marco giving Jean the space he needs to piece himself back together.

Marco's face opens up after a moment, eyes bright with an idea.

“Wanna join me on the roof?” he asks.

Jean looks up, surprised, but Marco's smile is inviting and honest and all Jean can do is nod.

* * *

The night air is still and dry and the tiles of Jean's freshly fixed roof are still warm from the fallen sun, not yet succumbed to the chill of the desert night, and it causes an unease to settle in Jean's stomach as he shifts, trying to find comfort in the hard press of his skin.

He can't, so he pulls his knees up and props his arms over them while Marco wobbles into a seat beside him.

Their shoulders brush, a jolt like static, and Jean curls more in on himself.

Marco, however, leans back, palms splayed out behind him as he looks up at the endless stars.

Jean can't stop the way Marco draws his attention, the way Jean wants so badly to reach out, to let the warmth between them really culminate in something meaningful, but this isn't the right time and this isn't the right place.

He swallows instead.

“Lucky you fixed this roof, huh?” he muses, and Marco snaps his attention back to him, a puzzled look on his face. Jean smiles wryly, trying to force the tension from his muscles. “Couldn' sit out here on a night like this otherwise.”

It sounds forced through Jean's strained throat, but it gets the desired result when Marco laughs, nudging Jean's thigh with his knee.

“I built my own boat, remember?” Marco teases, “I'm good with my hands.” He waggles his eyebrows and Jean huffs out a chuckle, feeling his ears burn pleasantly.

“I could take you to it, if'n you'd like,” Marco says quietly after a moment.

“To your onion field?”

Marco smiles and shrugs a bit.

“I bet that drives all the ladies wild when you offer that to 'em,” Jean taunts, “Truly a romantic settin'.”

Marco looks away, out past the rooftops and towards the distant hills. His smile is sheepish, and the moonlight highlights the lines in his face, the gentle slope of his nose and the soft flush to his cheeks.

“I wouldn't know,” he murmurs, “Never offered it ta anyone else.”

Jean's face grows hot and the silence returns, thick and heavy.

“O-oh,” Jean breathes, fingers tensing on his knees. He swears Marco can hear his heart beating with how loud it's pounding in his chest, and Jean finds interest in the tiled roofs of the town and the stone of the church steeple, the cross glowing blue in the moonlight.

It makes his stomach twist, bile building in his throat, and he tries very hard to swallow it back down.

Marco's voice is low, tentative, and it's so soft Jean almost misses it.

“I know you're the one makin' those spiced peaches, Jean.”

The familiar flood of panic sinks in and the air in Jean's chest tightens, his fists clenching. He's imagined this thousands of times, imagined the fear and judgment and the resentment and he braces for it, _**expects**_ it.

“How d'you figure?” he mutters, jaw clenched and gaze distant.

Marco's eyes never leave Jean's face, and Jean can feel them burning into his skin. “The spices,” Marco replies slowly, testing the waters, “Someone like Miriam wouldn't understand ya need to get to the bitterness before ya make it sweet.”

Jean's eyes narrow on the faraway cross, nostrils flaring. “Maybe I should just tell everyone they're mine.” The words choke out of his throat and Jean feels the morose lump in his chest stick in his gullet. “Maybe then people'll leave Miriam alone.”

“You'll be the black sheep of the town,” Marco murmurs, shifting his weight at Jean's side. The tenderness and concern surprises him, but Jean just swallows, unable to bite back his bitterness.

Marco already knows what it's like to be the outcast. His blended background and dark skin confirms there's very little places for him to actually be anything but. Jean feels his blood boil on Marco's behalf and not for the first time tonight he wishes there was somewhere else they could be, away from it all.

“That title's already mine, so why worry?” The words hang heavy in the night and the way Marco's face falls twists something deep in Jean's chest. He hunches his shoulders and pulls his knees in tighter.

“I suppose that's one of the nice things about the onion farm,” Marco hums, his forefinger tracing the edges of the grain between them, “It's quiet. It's away from pryin' eyes. From judgments.” Jean huffs a little, disbelieving, and Marco pokes Jean's thigh playfully with his pinkie. “The only thing that's there is the onions, the water, and me.”

Jean's heart flutters at the brush of Marco's fingers against his, a hesitant, feather like touch against his skin, and he feels Marco's voice more than he hears it. “If it's any conciliation, I don't think there's anything wrong with you, Jean,” he whispers, taking Jean's fingers loosely in his own, “I love your peaches.”

Jean's eyes fly to their hands before searching Marco's face, trying to find footholds in his expression. It's too honest, it's saying exactly what Jean wants to hear and relaying exactly what he wants to see, but...

“I wish things were different,” he finds himself whispering as Marco shifts, bringing their hands together between them.

Marco's smile is small and he looks down at their hands for a moment, playing a little with Jean's fingers. “I don't.”

Jean's certain he's stopped breathing, that the air in his lungs evaporated in the stillness and dried up with the moonlight.

“Why?”

Marco smiles a little, thoughtfully, and his eyes bore into Jean's with such intensity and truthfulness that Jean feels tears burn in his eyes.

“Because if things were different, then maybe I wouldn't have met you.” His gentle grip on Jean's fingers tighten a fraction and Marco almost laughs. “I ain't gonna risk that.” Marco almost looks worried for a moment and Jean can only stare at him, wide-eyed, as Marco tilts his head with a question. “Are you?”

Jean slowly shakes his head and the smile Marco gives him is blinding.

* * *

There are some days when the rain outside is not comforting or welcomed. Days when the wind blows through the cracks in the doors and the slats of the windows and chills the air in a way a spring shouldn't be.

Most of Jean's days are spent in a torrent of languid movements and sticky heat – cleaning through books, the slog of children, the smell of peaches.

Days like today feel too real – they hide the sunshine and make everything on Jean's skin pricks with irritation, when everything is too much but too little and the tightness in his chest is so unbearable all he can do is rest his head on the cool wood of his desk, hoping he can block out the noise and the whirring of his mind.

But the torrent outside makes it impossible to hide from the world and the frantic beating of his heart makes it impossible to disappear into himself.

Jean has no idea how long Marco has been there when he finally looks up. Jean's head is heavy and every blink of his eyes sends tears closer to the surface and he can't stop them, not when Marco's concern is so beautifully etched into the contours of his face and all Jean can think of is how he doesn't deserve the pity, how he doesn't deserve the way Marco keeps looking at him.

Like he's _**worth**_ something.

Marco carefully steps around Jean's desk and pauses in front of his chair. Jean drags his eyes up to Marco's face and his throat tightens when all that greets him is the worry in Marco's eyes.

Jean hastily looks away and shame flushes up his neck though he doesn't quite know why. He highly doubts Marco could be ashamed of anyone.

Or maybe that's just a Jean thing.

Marco says his name so quietly it's barely a whisper, but Jean's hands just tighten into fists on his knees, his eyes squeezing shut.

He hears Marco lower himself to the floor and the warmth of Marco's hand on his is startling. He works his fingers through Jean's tension like it isn't there at all, and the gentle tug he gives forces Jean to open his eyes again.

Marco searches his face, clutches Jean's fingers a little tighter. His breathing is deep, his eyes cautious but concerned, and Jean finds himself matching his breath, searching for footholds in Marco's expression. He finds them easily – Marco's always been open and selfless – and Jean feels the static in his brain slow with his deep sighs, with Marco's warmth and Marco's touch.

Jean has no idea how long he's been staring but slowly, Marco's other hand moves to cup Jean's face, dragging his thumb along the flush of his cheek.

The congestion in Jean's chest is nothing compared to the reassurance he feels from the brush of Marco's fingers and he can't stop himself from leaning into the gentle touch.

Jean knows he should pull back for both their sakes, that this can only lead to disaster and disappointment and pain and rejection but Jean has never wanted anything so much, he's never needed so much.

“We shouldn't,” Jean finds himself whispering despite how badly they scrape his throat as they crawl their way out.

“You're right,” Marco adds, leaning up on his knees to bring himself closer. Jean sucks in a breath as Marco slides into his space and Jean can feel the tickle of his breath against his skin, the pulsing of Marco's heart through his fingers.

Jean can't stop the way his eyes flick down to Marco's lips, can't stop the way his own part expectantly. Marco's gaze never leaves Jean's and his words leave his chest in a shaking breath. “But I don't care.”

Their noses brush – a delicate, soft gesture – and Jean presses their lips together.

Marco's lips are chapped from the sun but just as warm and Marco sighs as they kiss, like he's waited for this as long as Jean has. It's so different from anything Jean has felt before and the pounding of his heart isn't painful or strained but full of warmth and anticipation.

It doesn't take long for the angle to hurt though, and Jean finds himself being pulled further into Marco's orbit, sliding off his chair to join him on the floor.

This position is much better and Jean laces his arms around Marco's neck and kisses him again. He can't stop the way he tilts into the kiss, the way his body thrums with heat and need and desperation. The way Marco's arms wrap tightly around his waist and pull him in, pull him closer.

Somehow their lips part, tongues spilling into each other's mouths and Marco purrs when Jean's fingers slide their way into Marco's thick hair. He tugs lightly on the strands and feels the pull of Marco's smile against his own and laughter bubbles up between them as Marco sucks lightly at Jean's lower lip with his teeth.

The excitement between them grows and Jean is lost in touch and smell and feeling, the languid brush of their tongues and the breathless smile Marco leaves in their wake.

He indulges, just this once, in the sweet taste of his spiced peaches on Marco's tongue and the rain and the fresh air blowing off the lake.

But serenity can only last for so long.

It should be romantic. It should be burning and pulsing and hot but Jean's mind is still a jumble, still a horrible storm of thoughts and pain and he presses harder into Marco's touch, like he's trying to burn the image and feeling into his memory. Marco senses his fear, senses his desperation, and he kisses him back with something close to aggression, his hand pressing against the small of Jean's back.

Jean isn't sure who's trembling more when their lips finally part.

“We're gonna die,” Jean gasps between them and Marco just holds him tighter, presses more and more kisses to Jean's clammy skin and neck, “They're gonna find us out and we won't – I can't, Marco, they'll _**kill**_ you and I can't – ”

Marco captures his lips, fingers digging tightly into Jean's shirt and Jean deflates, tears rolling down his cheeks.

When Marco finally pulls back, Jean is breathless and leans into his arms, breath hiccuping in his chest.

Marco is warm, so very warm, and his heartbeat is strong beneath Jean's fingers.

Marco's voice trembles as he speaks, stumbling over the words, but they feel so strong to Jean's ears. “I-I don't care,” he murmurs, “Even if...If something happens to one of us...I will find you again.” He kisses Jean again like he's desperate to sear the words into his skin and Marco shivers against Jean's lips as he pulls back. “They...They can't keep us apart. I won't let 'em.”

“You can't promise that,” Jean chokes out, shaking his head.

Marco's weak chuckle vibrates through Jean's skin and his hand is warm as he cups Jean's cheek, thumb smoothing the tension in his face.

“I just did,” he replies, biting his lower lip to try to stop the expanse of his smile. Jean leans forward, letting their foreheads press together, and breathes out a slow sigh. Marco's hand trails up and down Jean's back, fingers dragging lightly against the shallow hairs of his undercut, and his smile fades. “And I will _**always**_ keep that promise.”

They stay like that long after the lights in the town go out, and it swims in Jean's head long after it's over.

* * *

Jean is awoken with the putrid stench of smoke and a scream.

 _ **Miriam,**_ his mind cries, _**Miriam!**_

Jean doesn't even know if he's slipped his boots on before he tears out of his family's inn in a haze, mind full of smoke and heat and fear.

He's shaking with so much fear.

The sun is long gone but the moon and stars are obscured with dark smoke, billowing its foul smell into the air. Jean races through the streets towards the screams but he feels like he's getting further and further away the more he runs, his feet sinking into the soft dirt and dragging out his steps.

It's far too late by the time he rounds the familiar corner and his heart catches in his throat, lungs burning and chest heaving.

Blazing, blinding fire dances where his school stands, engulfing the bone-dried wood in flames so high Jean is sure they're higher than the steeple of the church. It's like the sun has crashed down on their small town, sizzling and cracking and hot and all-consuming.

Miriam is still screaming, high pitched and wailing and in _**pain**_ but there are other voices now too that he can hear, jeers and laughter and the smashing of glasses.

It curdles his blood and Jean's mind is flighty, panicked. Dread settles deep in him and he shoves horses and shrouded figures out of his way, curses under his breath as his heavy steps lead him to the front of the crowd.

The heat from the fire is unbearable, searing his skin before he can take a step closer and he can't see Miriam, she's not anywhere in the crowd and she isn't responding when he calls her name and his voice is hoarse and there are tears burning his eyes and she can't be inside she can't be she _**isn't**_ –

Two hands grip his shoulders, sharp nails dragging him back to reality and he finally focus on Miriam's face, her cheeks flushed and eyes puffy. Her long blonde hair is a tangled mess around her delicate face and it takes Jean far too long to realize she's talking to him.

He hears _sheriff_ , _horses_ , and _lake_ and Jean only nods dumbly as she barks orders at him, shoving him in the direction of the town once more.

His feet fall numbly on the dusty ground as he half stumbles, half runs to the sheriff's station, barging through the door.

Shadis glances up from his desk when Jean storms in, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, Jean. Just the man I was goin' to see.” His words slur and Jean's mind falters, backtracks.

“You're drunk,” he breathes. It's a statement, not a question, but Shadis nods as if it was. The sheriff stands and Jean flinches back, hitting his head on the door frame.

“I always get drunk before a hanging,” Shadis explains, swirling a thick, viscous liquid in his glass.

“H-hanging?” Jean breathes and his mind rushes to catch up with him as the panic swarms his heart and floods his lungs.

“Shouldn't you be at school?” Shadis drawls and Jean's eyes fly to Shadis' holster, watching as the sheriff's thumb drags slowly over the handle of his revolver. “I'm sure the onion picker is lookin' for you.”

Jean gulps and the world spins. “Marco?” Jean asks, paralyzed, “W-what do you – ”

Shadis raises a bushy eyebrow and the small smile he gives Jean makes his blood run cold.

Lake. Miriam had said something about the lake.

It's too much. It's too much and the world is slipping away as Jean tears through the town, jumps over porches and flies through the dried grass to the banks of the lake, wading as deep into the water as he can.

It's slick and constricting and he chokes on air and his heart is pounding and his eyes are burning and he's crying, he knows he's crying and his chest hurts and he can see Marco's boat in the distance, can see him reflected beautifully in the moonlight as his oars make ripples in the glass-like water.

Jean calls out his name, treading water as fast as he can but Marco just keeps getting further, Marco doesn't see him, doesn't see the motorboat racing towards him.

A shot rings out.

Marco's shadow hunches over, bathed in cold, unforgiving moonlight.

Marco's boat stops.

So does Jean's heart.

In the water there's just silence. Jean knows he's screaming, but nothing registers over the ringing in his ears, the white noise.

The lake is thick like oil, sliding through his clothes and skin and dragging him down and Jean treads through nothing, goes nowhere.

In the distance, Miriam's shout pierces through panic and somehow Jean finds himself floating back to the bank, though he has no memory of swimming.

The pressure in his chest is suffocating, like thick cotton in his lungs, but Miriam hauls him out of the water all the same, pulling his numb body into her chest.

He hears her say something, feels her thin fingers rake through the mess of his hair, and Jean realizes he's crying, tears spilling down his cheeks and onto Miriam's already stained nightdress.

He doesn't move. He doesn't feel Miriam's warmth or the bony hug she's giving him.

She quietly says they need to leave and Jean swallows, head bowed as Miriam leads him to two of their horses.

He slides onto the back of one, though he can't remember its name. He can't focus.

In moments the horses are moving and Jean keeps his eyes forward, centered on nothing as he and Miriam race out into the night.

* * *

**_Three Months Later_ **

The Colt is heavy and cumbersome Jean's hands, but the weight gives him something to ground himself on, and when the trigger gets pulled back and the shot shakes the air, he lets out a slow, trembling breath. Maroon seeps through the sheriff's shirt, spreading across his chest and Jean takes the cigarette out from between his lips with trembling fingers.

The smoke billows out from his nostrils and he hastily blinks back the sting to his eyes. Jean doesn't feel like he's breathing, anyway.

The cigarette quivers in his fingers, but he finds the brilliantly bright spot on the sheriff's forehead, searing the embers into his skull. The stench of burnt flesh and blood and dust is overpowering and Jean's stomach clenches, rising in his throat.

With wide eyes he swallows it down, forces it away. He has no right to be upset. He has nothing to be upset about.

Jean flicks the dead cigarette from his hand and lets it fall to the ground of the sheriff's station, slipping his hands into his pocket to grab a fresh one as he shoves his way out the door, heaving the heavy metal gun back into his holster. When he steps out into the heat it barely touches his skin, barely burns his lungs.

Jean slides the new butt past his hesitant lips and sucks in a long drag. The nicotine makes his head spin and he hoists himself back onto his horse, ignoring the haze of his mind.

He chose his path. He'll deal with whatever it sends him.

Jean Kirschstein had nothing to live for anyway.

* * *

They're on the run and it's easier than Jean would have expected. The nicotine and booze make the days breeze by and everyone is so slow, so helpless in these small Texas towns that Jean wonders why so few people make it as outlaws.

He and Miriam wreak havoc and the friends they accumulate are just as loud and just as ruthless as they are.

They're just as empty, and it makes things easier.

Ymir's Winchester rifle is sturdy and rough like she is, while Mikasa and Armin's twin Henry Lever rifles are shiny and well kept; smooth and impeccably accurate.

Eren, like Jean, carries dual Colts and his penchant for cigarettes and beer make him both the best and worst person to be around.

Jean still remembers the acid in his mouth when he burned his cigarette into Shadis' skull and decides its a tell he'd like to keep. It keeps him honest, reminds him of why he left.

Reminds him of what he lost.

He and his gang all garner some pretty impeccable nicknames over the next couple of years: Mikasa gets “Iron Bullet” for her deadly accuracy and Ymir is affectionately called “Jaws” for the fearful smile she gives people before blowing them away.

Jean's outlaw name always sends Eren into a fit of laughter, though:

“Smokin' Gun”. Named for the butts of cigarettes he burns into his victim's skin.

They're the definition of rag-tag, but it works for them. They amass wealth. They amass fame. They're constantly on the run and it suits the lot of them – none of them ever wanna stay in a place long anyway.

Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn to months. Months to years. They rob and steal and drink and smoke and everything is a haze, their lives are hollow and dusty and full of the heat of the sun none of them can feel anymore.

It would be carefree if they all weren't so pathetic.

Jean hasn't been back to Green Lake, Texas in years but he still remembers the stickiness of the air, the smell of the tavern and the bitter taste of peaches.

He remembers other things; like a kiss in a drafty schoolhouse and the brush of fingertips on a rooftop and the smell of onions, but it's faded from the distance of years and warped with time.

He can't remember where Marco's freckles dusted his cheeks or whether the flecks in his eyes were copper or gold and that guilt is the strongest emotion Jean has felt in a while.

Green Lake, Texas certainly isn't a lake anymore and it sure as hell ain't green: the ground is cracked and dry, stretching out for miles in every direction. Nothing blocks the sun anymore; the trees have all died, blanched white by the sun and scratched into brittle pieces by the wind.

There aren't clouds for miles, and Jean is certain there haven't been for a long time.

He hefts the shovel over his shoulder more resolutely and lights another cigarette.

 _ **I'm goin' in alone**_ _,_ he told Miriam earlier, _**I'll just bury the loot and come right back.**_

The look his sister had given him was telling, but she said nothing as he walked off and Jean didn't bother looking back.

The heat is intense.

Jean's clothes stick to his skin and the warmth from the ground shimmers about him in a sweltering haze.

There's nothing around but the dust and the sun and the dirt, so when Jean finds a rock to lean up against, he lets the baked heat of the stone burn into his back and sucks the stifling air passed his parched and chapped lips, clamped loosely around the butt of his cigarette.

Jean closes his eyes and swallows, but there's no moisture for his mouth to accumulate, and the action scorches his throat. His head hurts, a throbbing that matches the pulse of his heartbeat, and Jean lets out a sigh.

He tips his hat and looks into the distance, remembering a poem long lost to memory.

“ _No yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,_

_Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,_

_To feel for ever its soft fall and swell -_ ”

His voice is cracked, puffs of air more than words, but he says them anyway, finding the smallest bit of solace in the flow.

“ _Awake for ever in a sweet unrest –_ ”

A voice on non-existent wind, a mirage in the shimmering light. A tall form, straight from the recesses of Jean's mind, and a smile that rivals the brightness of the sun beating down on them. Jean would stand if he wasn't stuck to the ground but he reaches out, throat breaking on the name.

“Marco.”

Marco crouches beside him and his clothes are just like the day Jean met him all those years ago, when Jean was just an angry young man and not a sunken figure weathered by dust and wind and time.

“ _Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,_

 _And so lie ever or else swoon to death._ ”

Marco finishes the poem, his smile soft, and Jean's heart breaks.

Tears would burn his eyes if he weren't dried out by the sun.

Jean feels the tender touch of Marco's forehead, cool like the breeze off the lake long dead. He can see the constellations across his cheekbones, can see the golden flecks in his eyes. The way he smiles is straight from Jean's memory – soft and honest and gentle and Jean can't breathe but Marco is here, how could anything matter when Marco is here?

His chest hiccups when Marco's cool lips press against his forehead and Jean closes his eyes to savour every lingering moment.

“You got five seconds to tell me where you buried your loot!” Like a breeze the press of lips is whispered away and Jean's eyes shoot open.

Marco is gone.

The turn of Jean's head is slow, but even with the bushel of an ugly, misshapen beard, his assailant is just as unpleasant and recognizable as ever, his hair just as greasy.

“Marlowe,” Jean rasps. Marlowe's clothes are ill-fitting and dirty and his hat is covered in dust and his boots are worn through. The years haven't been kind to either of them, it seems.

There's a woman next to him with chin length, wavy light-brown hair with a catty smirk on her face that is just on the small side of familiar, though her amber eyes have a hint of malice Jean doesn't appreciate.

“Where's the loot?” Marlowe barks again, slinging the rifle on his back to point shakily at Jean.

Jean takes a long drag of his cigarette, glaring down the barrel before blowing smoke out through his nose. “There ain't no loot.”

“Don't give me that,” Marlowe spits through his beard, “You robbed everything from hell to Houston.”

“We saw you headin' back with the shovel, Mr. Jean,” the woman goads. Jean furrows his brow.

“Hitch?” he murmurs.

“The one and only!” She replies with a sneer. Some of the ashes from Jean's cigarette fall to his shirt.

“ _Hitch,_ ” he huffs, adjusting his position against the rock, flicking his gaze between them. He smirks. He can't help it. “You must've married him for his money.”

“Well it's all gone now!” Marlowe snarls, waving his gun indignantly, “It's dried up with the lake. Hasn't rained here since the day they killed Marco.”

“Now you tell him what he wants!” Hitch interjects, “He's a desperate man!” The yelling only adds to the pounding of Jean's head and he looks up at the cloudless sky, the tempting blue and the endless heat.

“Kill me then,” Jean sighs, sucking another breath through the smoke and nicotine, “I've been wishin' I was dead for a long time.”

A movement to his left causes Marlowe to flinch and a lone lizard darts out between his legs, scampering through the dirt and the dust to escape the yelling and the noise.

The yellow spots on it's back are a warning, a danger, but Jean's eyes fixate on them all the same and the fear that once buried in his stomach from the sight of them all those years ago is barely a shiver now.

“Look out!” Hitch cries, jumping back and pulling out her own pistol.

Jean's hand snatches the lizard before it can make a mad dash out of his reach and he inspects it quietly, admiring its eleven spikes and scaly skin.

“Come here, sweet heart,” Jean coos, pulling it closer to his chest. The lizard wriggles angrily in his rough hands but Jean does his best to make sure it's comfortable as he holds it up to his wrist, patient and gentle. It writhes in his grip and with a startled shriek it extends its fangs and sinks into Jean's skin.

The pain is sharp, but only for a moment. Jean can almost feel the toxin slithering through his veins, weaving through his body and numbing his limbs.

Within seconds Jean feels light, airy. The pounding of his heart is barely noticeable and he breathes deeply as he feels it slow.

With a trembling laugh he looks over at Marlowe and smirks. “I guess if you wanna find my treasure ya better start diggin', Freudenberg.”

The last thing Jean feels before the light seeps from his skin is the roughness of the rock at his back and a breeze so gentle he doubts it was ever there in the first place.

* * *

**_230 Years Later_ **

Jean stares up at the wanted poster and sees a mirror of himself. A distant ancestor or distant relative or just a doppelganger, he isn't sure. He came here because Ymir told him he'd enjoy himself, but all the scene does is make him sad. His ancient body double has nothing but a wanted poster and a small, less than one hundred word blurb of his life. He would scoff if it didn't make him feel so miserable.

Is this supposed to make him feel better? It just makes him feel like his whole life is going to amount to nothing more than a hundred words in a tiny museum in a small town. His full name isn't even shown.

Jean sinks further into his jeans, feeling his shoulders hunch.

Pathetic.

A young man stops to stand next to him, reading the inscription on the museum wall, and Jean shoves his hands into his pockets, closing himself off.

“Sad,” the stranger says, and Jean can't stop the way his heart clenches when he catches the guy out of the corner of his eye. He's traditional Hollywood handsome – sculpted chin with scruffy hair and a smattering of freckles across a gentle, tan face.

Fucking unbelievable.

“Huh?” Jean replies dumbly.

“It's sad, isn't it?” the stranger says, smiling a little.

Jean shrugs and hopes his scowl isn't as aggressive as it feels. “I guess. There's not much to glean from what it says there.”

“I don't know,” the stranger mutters, concern knitting his brow, “Looking at him makes my chest hurt.”

_**Say something smart, Jean. Say something funny.** _

“Sounds like heartburn.”

_**Idiot.** _

Thankfully, Mr. Handsome saves him from his embarrassment by laughing politely, rubbing the back of his neck. “It's probably all the energy drinks and coffee,” he says, bemused.

Damn, what a _**smile**_.

“I'm Marco, by the way,” he declares, offer his hand.

“Jean.” Marco shakes his hand firmly and Jean feels a tingling in his fingers when they pull away. Jean hides his flush and shoves his hands back into his pockets, leaning a little on his heels.

“Sooo,” Jean begins, dragging out the vowel, “What brings you here, Marco?”

Marco sighs and his smile is small and for some reason Jean is reminded of summer. “Research for a paper.”

It takes a moment for Marco's words to register and Jean shakes his head, disbelieving. “Holy shit, are you in _**Shadis'**_ class?”

Marco quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I take his eleven am class.”

“No kidding?” Marco laughs and Jean's stomach flips at the sound. “I'm in his eight o'clock one.”

Jean shudders. Eight am. The witching hour. “Shit, that's rough,” he grouses, “How'd you do on the last paper? The analysis bit me in the ass.”

Marco laughs appreciatively. “The writing is actually pretty easy for me. I've always been a fan of poetry and John Keats just sort of...” He pauses and chews his bottom lip, thinking of the right word to say. “...Feels _**real**_ to me, if that makes sense?”

Jean nods. He knows that feeling very well. “Hey, think you could help me out?” Jean asks after a moment, “I'm not really sure what Shadis' looking for.”

“Sure.” Marco beams and Jean swears he can taste peaches lingering on the back of his pallet. “I'm not sure how great a tutor I'll be, but I can help you fix that.”

“Wanna grab a coffee and we can go over it?” Jean muses.

“That sounds great, Jean.” The way Marco's lips form around his name feels strangely familiar, but Jean ignores it for now, smiling back.

“Cool,” Jean says with a grin, “You're buying.”

Marco's laughter follows him as they make their way out and Jean's heart flutters comfortably in his chest.

Maybe this museum trip wasn't such a bad idea after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I remember a month ago when this one shot was gonna be short. Ah, the ignorance of youth.
> 
> Regardless I hope you guys enjoyed this! I worked really hard on it and I tried to keep it a well contained single story. As the tag implies this story is based off the tale of Kissin' Kate Barlow from Holes, both the book and the movie respectively. Kate's relationship with Sam reminded me SO MUCH of these two that I had to write it.
> 
> I hope Marco's creole decent came across, too. I don't like spelling things out too heavily because I'm always worried it ends up becoming trite or cliche, but that sometimes means not everything get explained well.
> 
> Regardless, let me know what you think! Kudos and comments are always appreciated and be sure to hit me up on my tumblr (pilindiel.tumblr.com) if you have any questions.


End file.
